by Ruth Rendell
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have started after Dearborn found her at Adams' flat, by which time he might have been growing weary of his wife.
In that case Dearborn was almost certainly the father of her child. Wexford sat down heavily when it occurred to him that the child could be Alexandra. Until now he hadn't thought much about Louise's announcement, reported by Adams, that her mother couldn't have children. After all, Louise had said she was only fifteen at the time. She could have got it wrong and have taken some minor surgery for the far more serious and final operation. If she had been speaking the truth, Melanie Dearborn couldn't be Alexandra's mother. But Dearborn could have brought home his own child his and Louise's to be adopted by himself and Louise's mother. And Melanie wouldn't have to know whose it was, only that it was a child whom Dearborn had adopted through a 'third party'. You didn't have to adopt through a society.
Alexandra, an adopted child . . . Or rather, adopted by one of her parents. That would account for the mother's indifference and the father's the real father passionate obsession.
But where was she all this time? Why didn't she come down? He heard her footsteps moving briskly overhead but he heard no other sound. Louise could have threatened Dearborn, especially if he had begun to cool off her, with exposure to her mother of their affair and then of the identity of the child. A very real threat, Wexford thought. Louise hadn't just been young and his mistress, but his stepdaughter as well. Melanie would surely have left him if she had found out. A strong motive for murder.
That was a clever explanation he had come up with for his office number having been found in Louise's handbag. How much more likely, though, that she had it there because she phoned him at work habitually! Perhaps it was he whom she had phoned on February 25th . . . But no, it couldn't be, for on that day, at that time she had phoned her mother.
There was, of course, a good deal more to be worked out. Probably Mrs Dearborn could help him if only she would
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come down. He felt a return of anguish for her, deepened now by his strong suspicion of her husband's guilt. The footsteps stopped and Alexandra began to cry, but the sounds were those of a baby who is peevish rather than distressed. He looked at his watch and saw that he had been there for nearly a quarter of an hour. Perhaps he should find the cleaning woman and ask her to . . .
The door swung open and Mrs Dearborn walked in. She was more smartly dressed than on the previous occasions when he had seen her, her hair was brushed and lacquered and her face carefully made up. The baby was in her arms.
'Oh, Mr Wexford, I'm terribly sorry to have kept you waiting.' She freed one hand and held it out to him. 'My poor little girl is having such trouble with her teeth. I was trying to get changed and comfort her at the same time. I see you've brought reinforcements,' she said, and joked, 'Don't worry, I'd have come quietly.'
Have come? Did she mean she couldn't come? He wished she didn't look so happy and carefree, cradling the baby and stroking her head with a tenderness he had thought she lacked. 'Mrs. Dearborn,' he began, 'I want you to . . .'
'Sit down, Mr Wexford. You can sit down for a moment, can't you?'
Uneasily he lowered himself on to the edge of one of the mutilated chairs. It is hard enough to break bad news to anyone at any time, but to break it to someone as cheerful and pleased with life as Melanie Dearborn looked now . . . ? 'We really shouldn't delay,' he said. 'The car's waiting and . . .'
'But we don't have to go anywhere. It's all rim. My daughter phoned me. She phoned m,e as soon as you rang off.'
His stomach seemed to turn over, the way it sometimes did when he was in a lift, and a faint sweat broke out in the palms of his hands. He couldn't speak. He could only stare stupidly at hen She smiled at him triumphantly, her head a little on one side. Some of her joy at last communicated itself to
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Alexandra, who stopped crying, rolled over on to her back on the sofa cushion and gave a crow of laughter.
'Are you sure?' he said, and his voice was a croak. 'Sure it was your daughter?'
'Of course I'm sure! You'll see her if you wait a while. She's coming this afternoon. Isn't it marvellous? Isn't it?'
'Marvellous,' he said.
'The phone rang and I thought it was you, calling back for something or other.' She spoke quickly, chattily, quite unaware of the shock she had given him. 'I picked it up and I heard the pips. As soon as I heard them I knew. Then she said, "Hello, Mummy." Oh, it was wonderful! I tried to get in touch with you but you'd already left. I just sat down and ate an enormous lunch I haven't been able to eat properly for days and then I went upstairs and got all dressed up. I don't know why.'
Wexford gave her a stiff, sickly smile. Alexandra laughed at him, kicking her legs in the air.
'Will you stay and see her?'
'No. I don't think anyone would doubt your word on this, Mrs Dearborn. I'll go and tell the sergeant not to wait, and then if you'd just give me a few details . . .'
Clements was treating the policewoman to one of his lectures, waving his hands as he pontificated on change and decay, Utopias and Dystopias, past glory and contemporary decadence. Wexford put his head through the car window.
'Tell Mr Fortune it's no dice. The girl's turned up.'
'Oh, great!' said the policewoman sincerely.
Clements wagged his head up and down with a kind of grim gratification. He started the car. 'She'll have a tale to tell, you can bet on that, and bring home a load of trouble for mother to sort out.'
'Give it a rest, can't you?' Wexford said savagely, knowing he shouldn't speak like that to a man who had been kind to him and hospitable and who liked him, but he hadn't been able to help himself. He saw Clements' face go red and truculent with hurt and then he went back into the house.
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Alexandra was chewing voraciously at her teething ring while her mother fetched smoked salmon and a bottle of asti spumante out of her husband's fancy dining refrigerator, setting it all op a tray. Killing the fatted calf, he thought. Thou art ever my daughter and all that I have is shine . . .
'Where had she been? What was all that disappearing act about?'
'She's going to get married. It's this boy, John. I suppose she's been living with him.' Mrs Dearborn sighed. 'They've had their ups and downs, but it sounds as if they really love t each other. He's married but separated from his wife awful, isn't it, to be married and separated before you're twentyfive? He's getting a divorce under the new act. Isa knew that last time she phoned but she wouldn't tell me until he'd got his decree in case something went wrong. That's Isa all over always cautious, always secretive. She sounds so happy now.'
He smiled stiffly. She probably thought he disapproved. Let her. The realisation that he had been hopelessly wrong, the shock of it, was only just beginning to hit him where it hurt. An awful desire to run away had seized him, to run to Victoria and get on a train and go home. He couldn't remember ever having made such a monumental howler before and the memory of how he had talked so eagerly to Howard, had nearly convinced him, made him go hot all over.
And now, as he looked back, he saw that although certain circumstances in the lives of the two girls had seemed alike or coincidental, Loveday had never really matched Louise. He asked himself whether a wealthy girl brought up like Louise would have shown horror when asked to a party or baulked at being taken into a pub; if such a girl would have scuttled off for comfort to a non-denominational church; if Louise, who had been Dearborn's friend before he was her mother's, would have needed to carry his office number in her handbag, a number she must long have known by heart. He knew it was all impossible. Why hadn't he known before? Because he had so desperately wanted to prove his abilities, and in order to do so had sacrificed probability to wild speculation. He had been
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guilty of the very sin he had laid at Baker's door, that of formulating a theory and forcing the facts to fit it. Fame had been more important to him than truth.
'G
ood-bye, MrsDearborn,' he said, and he added hollowly, 'I'm very glad for you.'
She shook hands with him on the doorstep but she didn't look at him. She was looking past him towards the arch. And she hadn't long to wait. As Wexford crossed Laysbrook Square, he saw the girl coming from the King's Road direction, saw her disappear under the shadows of the arch, a slim fair girl but otherwise quite unlike Howard's photograph of the dead.
Angrily cursing himself for an idiot, he walked for miles about Chelsea. Soon he would have to face Howard. By now Clements would have told him and he would be reflecting how unwise he had been to let family feeling and sentimentality persuade him into seeking his uncle's help. Baker would be told and Baker would shake his head, inwardly derisive.
At last he went home to Theresa Street, hoping there would be no one there, but both women were at home and a third with them, Denise's sister-in-law, who asked after his health, told him he could expect nothing else at his age, and assured him she could get any number of copies of Utopia he might desire from her bookshop.
'We all make mistakes, Reg.' said Howard gently when they sat down to dinner. 'And, Reg . ., ? We're not all competing for some sort of national forensics certificate, you know. It's just a job.'
'How many times have I said that, or something very like it, to my own men?' Wexford sighed and managed a grin. 'You can laugh if you like, but last week I really had some sort of idea that I was going to step in and solve the baffling case that eluded the lot of you. An elderly Lord Peter Wimsey. You were going to sit back and gasp in admiration while I expounded.'
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'I daresay real life and real police work aren't like that.' He might have added, Wexford thought, that his uncle had, however, given them some useful tips. But he hadn't really, so Howard couldn't. Instead he said almost as generously, 'I'd have felt the same if I'd come down to your manor.'
'It's odd, though, how convinced I was about that girl.'
'And you convinced me, but Baker would never go along with it. I know you don't like him and I admit he's a peculiar character, but the fact is he seldom does make mistakes. Even when his wife went off and there was that business about the unborn child, he went emotionally to pieces but his work didn't suffer. If he says Gregson's guilty and he's got a bee in his bonnet about it the probability is Gregson is guilty.
Wexford said rather sourly, 'He doesn't seem to be getting very far with proving it.'
'He's a lot further than he was. He's breaking up that Psyche club alibi. Two of the men who were there with Harry Slade have cracked and admitted they never saw Gregson after eight o'clock. And another thing. Slade's girl friend remember the one he was supposed to be playing Monopoly with last Saturday? she's got a record. Baker's having another go at Gregson now without, we hope, the damping pre- sence of Mr de Traynor.'
Wexford took two of his tablets and noticed how far the levy in the bottle had gone down. No one could say he had failed there, at any rate.
'I don't think I'll come in with you tomorrow, Howard,' he said. 'We're off on Saturday and there'll be the packing and . . .'
'Come off it. Dora will do all that.' Howard surveyed his uncle's burly figure. 'Besides, the only thing you could pack is a punch.'
Wexford thought of Lamont. Had he avoided seeking a further interview with him because he was physically afraid? Perhaps. Suddenly he realised how deeply his illness had demoralised him. Fear of getting tired, fear of getting wet, fear of being hurt all these fears had contributed to his failure.
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Wasn't it ready fear of over-exerting himself that had made him waste the morning at Garmisch Terrace rather than go to Somerset House where a quick examination of records would have prevented today's faux pas? Kenbourne Vale police station was no place for him and Howard, for all his kindness, knew it.
'WeD, I seem to have time on my hands for once, Reg. May as well catch up on my reading and dip into those Russian short stories my sister-in-law brought round. Curious stuff, but interesting, don't you find? One of these days I'd like your opinion . . .'
Literary chit-chat.
Four short stories and two hours later, Howard got up to answer the phone. Gregson had confessed, Wexford thought The relentless Baker, Baker with the bee in his bonnet, had finally broken him.
But when Howard came back into the room, he could see from his nephew's face that it wasn't going to be as simple as that.
Howard didn't look at all pleased. 'Gregson's bolted,' he said. 'Baker was having a go at him in that Psyche Club, Gregson apparently doing his customary dumb act, when suddenly he found his fists if not his tongue, clouted Baker one and made a getaway in a stolen car. Baker fell off the bar stool and cut his head open on, of all things, a glass of advocaat.'
'Oh, poor Mr Baker!' said Denise, coming in from the kitchen with a white urn full of African violets.
'You weren't supposed to be listening. Here, let me take that thing, or give it to Reg. It's too heavy for you.'
'Gregson shouldn't take you too long to find,' said Wexford.
'God, no. He'll be under lock and key by morning.'
'Will you have to go over to Kenbourne, darling?' asked Denise, still hugging the urn.
'Not me. I'm going to bed. My days of running round in
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squad cars chasing little villains are ova. Will you mind that thing?'
Each put out his arms to grasp the urn which looked as if it weighed half a hundredweight. It was partly the idea that Howard had already got hold of it, partly a sudden terror of the effect on him of supporting so heavy a weight, that made Wexford draw back at the last moment. The urn crashed on to the carpet with a ponderous juddering thud, sending earth and broken leaves and pink and mauve petals flying against the walls and the pale hitherto immaculate Wilton.
Denise screamed so loudly that Wexford didn't hear Howard's hollow groan. Muttering apologies although all apologies were inadequate falling to his knees among the mess, he tried to scoop earth up in his hands and only made matters worse.
'At least the vase thing isn't broken,' he said stupidly.
'Never mind the bloody vase,' said Howard. 'What about me?' He had collapsed into a chair and was nursing his right foot. 'That landed fair and square on my toes.'
Denise had burst into tears. She sat in the middle of the wreckage and cried.
'I'm terribly sorry,' said Wexford miserably. 'I'd like to . . . I mean, is there anything I can . . . ?'
'Just leave it,' said Denise, drying her eyes. 'I'll see to it. Leave it to me. You go to bed, Uncle Reg.'
Ever polite, although he was white with pain, Howard said, 'Forget it. You couldn't help it, Reg. You're not fit enough to cope with things like that yet. No wonder you dropped it. God, my foot! I hope nothing's broken.'
He got his shoe off and limped towards the door. Denise fetched a dustpan and brush and began rescuing those of her plants that were still intact while Dora, summoned from up- stairs by the uproar, picked grains of soil from the wallpaper.
Watching them disconsolately, Wexford reflected on his nephew's last remarks and upon their double meaning.
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17 Ycu must not forsake the ship in a tempest because you cannot rule and keep down the winds.
~ N the morning Howard's foot was worse, but he refused to 1 see a doctor, saying that it was imperative he arrived on time in Kenbourne Vale.
'But you won't be able to drive, darling.' Denise had stayed up until the small hours cleaning the carpet and she had an exhausted air. Transferring her gaze from a large in- eradicable stain to her husband's swollen instep, she said,
'You can hardly put that foot to the ground.'
'Never mind. I'll phone for a driver.' ~ 'Unless Uncle Reg would . . .'
They looked at Wexford, Howard doubtly, Denise as if she considered that anyone fit enough to reject yoghurt in favour of bacon and eggs was quite capable of driving a car through the London rush hours. Wexford didn't want to go. He had lost all i
nterest in the Morgan case, and plain cowardice overcame him when he thought of meeting Baker and Clements, both of whom would know of his exploded theory. Why had he ever been so stupid as to go and poke about in the Mont- fort vault in the first place? Let Howard send for a driver.
He was going to plead a pain in his eye and for the first time in days he could feel it aching and pricking again when Dora said unexpectedly, 'Of course Reg will take you, dear. It's the least he can do after dropping that thing on your
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foot. He can come straight back and have a rest, can't you, darling?'
'Give me the keys,' said Wexford resignedly. 'I hope you realiseI've never driven in London traffic.'
But it wasn't As bad as he had feared, and concentrating on being one of'the honking, thrusting herd, charging wild beasts which made Kingsmarkham motorists seem like sheep, made him forget his eye and, briefly, that stronger trepidation. They arrived to find Gregson safe in a cell, having been discovered taking refuge at his sister's house in Sunbury. Howard, sure of him now on the grounds of assault on a police officer and of taking and driving away a vehicle without its owner's consent offenses which even Mr de Traynor couldn't dispute limped off to talk to him. Wexford decided to make his escape and get home before the threatening rain began and he made for that semi-secret exit into the mews. It had occurred to him happily by this time that if Howard's injury was insufficient to keep him from work, Baker's wouldn't be, so he was much disconcerted when, marching confidently down one of the bottle-green caverns, he came face to face with the inspector, his head swathed in bandages.
